Loathe to admit
by Aerox
Summary: Harvey Spencer doesn't care... or so he'd like to make everyone believe. And yet, somehow Mike Ross has managed to make Harvey give a damn about another human being.


**A/N: **Just got into Suits and really enjoy it. Figured I'd bust out a fanfic, because it's what I do. This is mostly a test-run for me to develop Mike and Harvey's voices. If you think I did okay, let me know in a review. This spoils the pilot and up until I'd say the S1 finale, but really, it doesn't have any major spoilers.

**Disclaimer: **Don't own Suits, don't intend to. 's all good.

* * *

Thunk.

He sat in his leather chair, his feet draped over his oak wood desk. If he glanced to his left, he'd see his prized possessions—various signed basketballs, all by the sport's greatest legends. But he couldn't be bothered to look at them. He had bigger fish to fry. Carelessly he tossed one of his baseballs in the air and caught it. It hit the roof and then dropped down in his waiting palm. He didn't need to look. He had the golden touch. He was the firm's golden boy.

Thunk.

Harvey Specter was miserable. Of course he knew this, it wasn't a secret. But somewhere down the line, the giant ego and narcissism that was vital in his career had started making way for something different. Cases he took were no longer carefully selected from a pile that had a middling to enormous chance of being a great payday for him. He didn't bother to see if he would win any of them. He'd win them all.

Thunk.

No, Harvey was miserable for another reason. It was that damn kid. Mike had grown into an invaluable part of Pearson Hardman. His eye for detail was outstanding. Harvey knew the kid was a bona fide genius the moment he had been beaten by him at his own game, back at the hotel. He was smart, charming in his own way, and the worst part of all, he cared.

Thunk.

Oh, Harvey had tried getting him to become his protégé. He trained him, taught him the ways of the "Harvey Specter treatment®" (and yes, he had registered it), and it still ended up with Mike putting on the puppy-dog look and asking if Harvey couldn't _pleaaase_ make an exception because he had found some sort of inconsistency in the stories that the clients, or hell, even other attorney's clients had told him.

Thunk.

He caved every goddamn time. And now he didn't even need to be asked any more. Sure, he still put up a fight, called the kid stupid and told him he had no idea what he was talking about, but he'd begun to trust the kid's hunches. More often than not, they'd lead to them righting some form of wrongdoing. And he'd started to learn that there were more things in life than a fat bank account, a posh car and beautiful, five-thousand dollar suits.

Thunk.

That wasn't to say that those things weren't important. After all, they were. Of course they were. But he'd began learning that sometimes it was okay, not getting the financial gain that he so desperately craved. Sometimes it was enough to see the happy face of a client, as he—or Mike—told them that they had won.

Thunk.

He caught the ball and put it down next to the blue folder that was his current case. A frivolous suit at best. A guaranteed win. Didn't even deserve half of Harvey's attention, but Jessica had demanded it. That woman had a _lot_ of friends who needed legal counseling. He was about to start reading through the summary when the door opened. Mike bounded in, holding a case-file in his hands, swaying along to a beat only he could hear through those damn earbuds.

"Harvey, my man, I've got an offer you can't refuse here."

Harvey raised an eyebrow. "Really? That's the best you got? The Godfather?"

Mike tossed the folder on the desk and sat in the opposing chair. He pulled the earbuds out of his ear and started rolling it up. "Not a fan of Coppola's work?"

"Brando," he shot back as he tossed his own folder on the one Mike had deposited on his desk. "Listen kid, I'm up to my ears in pro-bono shit that I don't give a rat's ass about, but Jessica is hounding my case. So unless you have a good reason to barge in here, and demand my attention, you're flying solo on this one."

Mike blinked. "Okay, first, how can you not love Brando? I mean, he's the Godfather. He _made_ the movie. Second, you know that building firm we represented? As it turns out, their director, Miles Walker, he's been paying off employees to keep them quiet about their hazardous working conditions. Harvey, this is huge. It will prove that Jim was actually right all along, and we don't have to sue him. We can help him."

"Right, and we lose the company. What do you think Jessica will say?"

"Look, if this goes public, their stocks will plummet. I think it's better that we get a good rep out of this, y'know? Be the good guys in this whole affair."

The kid had a point. He picked up his ball and lobbed it in the air.

Thunk.

Thunk.

Thunk.

"Donna!" Harvey shouted through the glass doors of his office. His secretary didn't bother turning around.

"Already cancelled your appointments," she yelled back.

"I wasn't gon…"

"Yeah you were," she said, without looking.

"It's like she reads minds," he whispered to Mike.

"No, you're just predictable," Donna yelled, and she smirked.

He barked a laugh. "See what I mean?" he said to Mike. He grabbed the blue folder and handed it to the kid. "Let's go."

They were walking through the halls of the building when something occurred to Harvey. "You don't give a damn about what would've happened to this firm, do you? You just care about that client."

"Jim? Yeah… I do."

"Attaboy."


End file.
